Victory at Sebastopol

by V. A. Stuart

  “But that was not why you returned, was it?”

  She shook her head, flushing under his critical scrutiny. “No, it wasn’t. I had … other reasons, I—well, there’s no time to go into them now. We’ve stayed long enough and tired you, I’m afraid. I will try to come again, if you would like me to and—”

  “You know I should be delighted to see you.” Phillip accepted her extended hand regretfully. She had changed, he thought, changed almost out of recognition, and he found it difficult to reconcile his memory of her, toiling beside the other Highland women among the Balaclava wounded, with the young lady of fashion whose small, gloved hand he was now holding in his own. Yet her smile was the same; her low, charming voice, with its faint suggestion of a lilt, had not altered … it was only her outward appearance, with its revelation of a beauty he had not realized that she possessed, which—strangely—had created the illusion of change. This and, perhaps, the brash manners of her two young charges. “Please come again,” he begged. “But alone, if that is possible. I should so much like to talk to you, Catriona.”

  “I will try,” Catriona answered. “But we may be leaving here within the next day or two. I … I will let you know.” She withdrew her hand, as if suddenly shy of him and, calling to her companions, took her leave with a finality that he found at once puzzling and—in view of their previous relationship—a trifle hurtful.

  Next day a brief note was delivered, to tell him that the Pendletons were sailing for Balaclava earlier than she had anticipated and apologizing for her inability to pay him a second visit. Phillip was disappointed and still more puzzled when an enquiry as to the whereabouts of the yacht revealed that it was still lying in the Golden Horn, awaiting the completion of its crew.

  That evening, however, all thought of Catriona was driven from his mind by the unexpected appearance of the Miranda. The frigate dropped anchor and a boat put off with unusual haste, carrying a wounded Officer, with the surgeon, Dr Corbett, in attendance. Phillip guessed, long before the sick man was carried on board the hospital ship, who it was—the surgeon’s anxiety, the grief of the men who bore the stretcher, told him that it was their Commander and that he was gravely wounded.

  Surgeon Corbett, recognizing him, sought him out after the patient had been settled in one of the after cabins. “It was such a small wound, Commander Hazard,” he said bleakly. “Not as severe as yours—and he need not have incurred it!”

  “What happened, Doctor?” Phillip asked, sick with pity.

  Corbett sighed. “Oh, there’s to be a new land-based assault on Sebastopol and an attempt, agreed to by Lord Raglan and General Pélissier, to take the Malakoff and the Redan. A diversionary attack by the Fleet was asked for and nine of our frigates, including the Miranda, and supported by rocket boats from the flagship, launched an experimental night attack on the seaward defences. On the 16th, that was. Lord Clarence Paget set out marks, as a guide for our gunners, and he commanded the operation, which was highly successful. Quite a lot of damage was done—mostly by the rockets—and we sustained no casualties, so it was decided to repeat the attack the following night. The Miranda should not have been in the attacking squadron at all—they were queueing up for the privilege. But you know our Commander.”

  Phillip echoed his sigh. “Yes, I know him.”

  “The enemy were waiting for us,” the surgeon told him grimly. “They ranged some of their big guns on our marks and we ran into a terrible barrage. The Sidon was in trouble—she lost fifteen, killed and wounded—and we went to her assistance. Captain Lyons was struck by a shell fragment, as he was directing our fire. His left leg was lacerated but he made light of it, tied a tourniquet round it himself and did not send for me to attend him until the squadron returned to the anchorage. By that time, the harm was done. I wanted to amputate but, like you, he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Do you think I’m going to go around on a peg leg for the rest of my days, Doctor?’ he said. ‘Pensioned out of the Service at thirty-five? Life wouldn’t be worth living—I’d rather take a chance and try to save my leg, if I can.’ ”

  “Can you not save him?” Phillip managed. “Surely something can be done?”

  The doctor shook his head, near to tears. “I’d give my own right arm if it would do any good but I’m very much afraid it’s too late, Commander Hazard.” He spread his hands in a despairing gesture. “It was really too late when I suggested taking the leg off—that was why I did not insist. He’d had the tourniquet on too long, you see, and the flesh had started to mortify. He said it was just a scratch and that he forgot about it! But I brought him here in the hope that the surgeons may be able to do for him what they’ve done for you. They’re examining him now but I … I could not stay whilst they did so. I know what their verdict will be, Hazard. It will take a miracle to save him.”

  The miracle that had been vouchsafed to him, Phillip thought—surely, oh surely God, in His infinite mercy, would not deny that same miracle to Jack Lyons? Jack, with his splendid prospects, his outstanding courage and upright character, who was beloved by every Officer and seaman who had ever served with him … and who was the pride of his father’s heart. He asked huskily, having to make an effort to hide his emotion, “Does the Admiral know, Doctor?”

  The doctor bowed his head, “I tried to prepare him but I don’t think he believed me, I don’t think he could bear to. They’re very close, you know. The Admiral thinks the world of his son. ‘He’s done well, hasn’t he, Corbett?’ he kept saying to me. ‘He’s proved himself in the Azoff operations and he’ll go to the top, as I always knew he would … right to the top, in the best Nelson tradition.’ And now this! It’ll break his father’s heart, Hazard, as it’s breaking mine … and it was such a small wound. If only he had called me sooner!”

  Phillip took his arm. There were no words of comfort he could offer and his own grief matched his companion’s as, in numb silence, they paced the Bombay’s shadowed deck and watched the sun sink below the horizon in a blaze of glory. At last an orderly came to summon the doctor to a conference with his colleagues and he said, in a low voice, “This is it, then … God help him! Go to him, will you Hazard? He was asking for you as soon as we brought him on board. There’s something troubling him on your account—something he says he failed to do for you. I should be grateful if you could set his mind at rest.”

  “Of course,” Phillip promised. “I’ll do anything in my power, Doctor.” He laid a hand on the doctor’s bowed shoulder. “And we shall all be praying for a miracle.”

  Jack Lyons received him with cheerful affection. His face had a grey, pinched look but he waved aside the suggestion that he was in pain. “Good Lord, I can’t feel a thing! I’ve slept the clock round since it happened—that’s proof enough, is it not? And the sight of you is a tonic, Phillip my dear chap—you’re a whole man, with all your limbs, but the sawbones would have had that arm of yours off in a trice, if you’d let them. How are you? You’re looking better than when I last saw you, anyway, although you’ve lost the devil of a lot of weight.”

  “I’m all but recovered, Jack. The staff here are truly wonderful. They’ll do for you what they’ve done for me and—”

  “No.” The interruption was quiet but Phillip stiffened in dismay as he heard it. “No,” Jack repeated. “I fear they cannot, Phillip. It’s too late for me … and through my own stupid fault, not Corbett’s. Poor devil, he’s done everything humanly possible and he’s perjured himself a dozen times, in his well meaning efforts to hide the truth from me. No, for pity’s sake”—as Phillip tried to protest—“don’t you start lying to me as well. We’ve been friends too long for that. Shipmates, too, Phillip … remember those good old Pilot days, when you were newly-promoted Lieutenant and I was in all the glory of my first command?”

  “Yes, I remember. They were damned good days. I shan’t forget them, as long as I live. I …” Phillip broke off, realizing what he had said but Jack smiled at him mockingly.

  “And nor shall I, my dear ch
ap. I wish this didn’t have to be … I don’t want to end my life now, Phillip, with everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve worked for within my reach. But if it is God’s will, who am I to question it?” He spoke without bitterness and Phillip’s heart went out to him in helpless pity. “I’m worried about my father, though—he’ll take it hard, I fear. See him for me, if you can, would you please, when it’s … when it’s over. Tell him he must carry on, it would be a national loss if he did not, if he let what’s happened to me bring about his premature retirement. And tell him”—Jack’s smile lost its mockery—“tell him there never was a son who was fonder or prouder of his father than I’ve been, all my life. He always modelled himself on Nelson, you know, even as a young man, and he has the Nelson touch. I think so, anyway. Indeed, I may speak out now and confess that I believe my father to be our greatest Admiral, and a man fitted for the times we’re living in. Tell him that, will you, Phillip my friend?”

  “I’ll tell him,” Phillip promised. He could feel his control slipping but somehow he managed to steady his voice.

  “Thanks,” Jack acknowledged. “There’s one other thing, which I must get off my conscience. I’ve let you down, Phillip. I never intended to but I have and—”

  “You’ve never let me down. You—”

  “I’m afraid I have. You’re in trouble, old man, and you shouldn’t have been, if I’d been able to keep my promise to back you to the hilt. But we’ve been pretty busy in the Sea of Azoff—you’ll have heard, no doubt, what’s been going on there—so I put off writing a full report on your particular operations. I thought I had plenty of time and—”

  “Forget it, Jack, please!” Phillip besought him. “It doesn’t in the least matter, I assure you. It—”

  “Oh, but it does matter, old son, and I shall write that report if it’s the last thing I … oh, damn it, I intend to see it’s written. You’ll need it, Phillip, because you’ll be facing a Court Martial when you—“Dr Gorbett put his head round the door of the cabin.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he began. “But they want to transfer you to the Palace Hospital and …” his carefully assumed smile faded when he glimpsed his patient’s flushed face. “I beg you not to overtax your strength, Captain Lyons. You should rest for a while now. I’m sure that Commander Hazard won’t mind. He can visit you again later, when you’re—”

  Jack waved him to silence. “I’ve not quite done, Doctor,” he said. “And this is something I must get off my conscience. Give me five minutes, will you please? And tell them I don’t want to be moved—I’m very comfortable here.”

  When the doctor had rather unwillingly departed, he turned to Phillip again, his expression troubled. “Your Court Martial will be a pure formality, my dear fellow. The decision to prefer charges against you was not made by my father willingly, as I feel sure you’ll realize. He was compelled to yield to pressure from high places. That great bear of a Russian Captain you took prisoner, allied to—what’s his name, the Arab? Faruk, isn’t it? Yes, Faruk Bey, who has pulled every string he could lay his filthy hands on … they are responsible, I’m afraid. Most of the pressure has come from our Ambassador, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, between ourselves. He fears that good relations with the Porte might be damaged by a refusal to enquire into Faruk Bey’s complaints and Their Lordships appear to have taken his word for it. The Secretary has advised my father privately that it’s considered best to afford you the opportunity to refute the charges, once and for all, rather than attempt to hush the matter up … with which view I trust you will agree?”

  Shocked by this news, Phillip was at pains to hide his dismay. He managed a smile, as forced as Dr Corbett’s had been, and said guardedly, “Naturally I shall do as Their Lordships see fit to command, Jack. I—do you know what the charges will be?”

  “Not precisely, no. Faruk wants to charge you with murder, which is, of course, quite absurd. Captain Kirkoff seems to have dug up all kinds of obscure clauses in the Articles of War—ours and the Russian equivalent—in an effort to prove that you violated his rights as a prisoner-of-war … whatever those may be. I confess I’m not clear—are you?”

  “No, I’m not. But you—”

  “My report will settle the matter,” Jack said with certainty. “So you’ve nothing to worry about. As I told you, the trial is a pure formality.” He lay back, suddenly exhausted, and held out his hand. “I’m ready for old Corbett’s ministrations now, if you’d tell him. Good-bye, Phillip my dear fellow. You’ll remember the message for my father, won’t you? God bless you and the best of luck!”

  Phillip grasped the proffered hand in both his own, blinded by grief and unable to say a word, a deep and abiding sense of loss tearing the last remnants of his control to shreds.

  Jack Lyons died 24 hours later, on 23rd June, conscious almost until the end, resigned and uncomplaining, and courageous beyond belief. Phillip shared the vigil at his bedside and, with some of his Miranda Officers, helped him to make his will and, at his dictation, took down a letter to his father and messages for his family and close friends. He started to dictate the report he had promised to one of the Lieutenants from the Miranda, Cecil Buckley, but it had progressed no further than the first paragraph when strength and memory failed and it had to be abandoned.

  “I hadn’t the heart to urge him to continue, sir,” Buckley apologized. “He said he’d given you his word that he would write it, but I knew you’d understand. Yesterday was his birthday, you know. He told me how fortunate he had been to live for thirty-six years, and then he said, ‘This is the way the Captain of a man o’ war should die, Cecil, if it is not granted to him to die instantly on the deck of his ship and in the heat of action.’ And then his mind wandered a bit and he was back aboard the Miranda. ‘Steady as you go, Quartermaster,’ he shouted. And then to the First Lieutenant, ‘Ease her, Mr Mackenzie. Stop engines.’ Those were his last words, sir.” Lieutenant Buckley unashamedly wiped the tears from his eyes, handed Phillip the few lines he had written, and added, with conscious bitterness, “He’s to have a grand funeral, sir. Lord Stratford and his suite are to attend, with the French Ambassador and dignitaries representing the Porte, I believe. But we’re to be permitted to supply a bearer party and a guard of honour, so we’ll see him to his rest, as he’d have wanted us to. And the First Lieutenant and I have chosen the spot, with the Chaplain’s aid, in the garden of the Palace Hospital. He’ll be near the sea there, sir. I think he’d like that, don’t you?”

  Phillip nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “I think he would, Mr Buckley.”

  The funeral, held on the 25th, was as grand as young Buckley had predicted, but it was also deeply moving, for when the time came for his Mirandas to take final leave of their Commander, even the battle-hardened seamen drawn up at the grave-side were weeping.

  Phillip returned to the hospital to find an Officer from the Hannibal waiting for him. “I have orders to place you under arrest, Commander Hazard,” he said formally. “And to escort you aboard the Hannibal to face a general Court Martial, on charges of which you will be informed in due course. May I ask you for your sword, if you please?”

  Phillip said wryly, “I don’t possess a sword, I’m afraid, Commander, but doubtless I shall be able to borrow one, if my own does not reach me in time. Come to that, I haven’t a uniform.”

  “No full dress uniform, do you mean, Commander?”

  “No uniform of any kind, I regret to say. My ship is with the Azoff squadron.”

  “Arrangements will be made for your kit to be collected,” the Officer volunteered. Abandoning formality, he smiled. “My name’s Macdonald, John Macdonald. I—er—forgive my curiosity but what the devil’s been happening to you, Hazard? No sword, no uniform, and you look as if you’ve scarcely recovered from a severe wound. In fact, you—”

  “You’ll hear my story in court,” Phillip assured him. “Although”—he became aware, suddenly, of a haunting fear—“it occurs to me to wonder whether the story you’ll hear
will bear any relation to the truth. Now I come to think of it, I rather fear it may not, because the evidence I’d intended to call in my defence has just been interred in the hospital garden, together with the body of one of the finest men I ever knew.”

  Commander Macdonald stared at him in astonishment. “I understand,” he said sympathetically, “that you’ve just come from laying poor Jack Lyons to rest.”

  “Yes,” Phillip confirmed. He expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh. “Permit me to take my leave of the staff, if you please, and then I shall be ready to accompany you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  An indefinable air of gloom and disillusionment was the first thing Phillip noticed on his return to Sebastopol. Morale had been high, prior to the departure of the Kertch expedition but it was at rock-bottom now, even in the Fleet. Among the Army Officers he met, this was even more apparent; few spoke of victory any more and most seemed to have abandoned all hope of seeing a successful end to the siege.

  The French attack on the Malakoff—launched prematurely by General Pélissier without the usual French practice of a heavy preliminary bombardment—had failed and, despite the desperate heroism of the attackers, they had been driven back with appalling losses. In a vain attempt to save his allies from further slaughter, Lord Raglan had ordered two British columns to attack the Redan at dawn but they, too, had been repulsed in some of the heaviest fighting of the war, fifteen hundred of them falling beneath a ghastly hail of cannon and musket fire. The Naval Brigade, which had taken part in this attack, had also suffered heavy casualties which had included the gallant Captain Peel, who was severely wounded in the right arm.